aseeb zadda ghar ka main woh dar hon mohsin

deemak ki tarha.. khaa gayi jissey dastak ki tammana

View On Black

hats off to the originator, all I have done is a bit of PP to suit the mood.

bronzo raffigurante ad altezza reale un asino ed un uomo, ho scoperto essere il monumento al Villano con tanto di stupenda poesia dedicata.

Ve la ripropongo in versione integrale perchè merita di essere letta e meditata:

IL VILLANO

Padre, voglio sapere chi è villano

Figlio mio se pensi ad un uomo

che prega col cappello in mano

mentre inginocchiato invoca Dio,

pensi a chi piange, bestemmia

poi chiede perdono

mentre asciuga il sudore

e carezza le spighe di grano

quello ha il titolo di "Villano"

Se vedi colui che ha il sorriso

mentre raccoglie grappoli dorati

o piange e si dispera

per le delusioni dell'umano,

prende gli attrezzi da lavoro

con la forte e callosa mano

o si siede in mezzo al campo

quando la fatica tormenta le sue membra

poi ritrova sempre la sua forza

quello figlio mio è il "Villano"

Se conosci un uomo

che del trifoglio ama il profumo

che ama l'aroma del fieno,

che ama produrre frutti profumati,

che ama la tranquillità e la pace,

che ama la sorgente pura

la rugiada al nascere del sole,

allora figlio mio sei al cospetto

del figlio che di Dio è il prediletto

a quell'uomo puoi stringere la mano

perchè ha il nobile titolo di " Villano"

Nerio Persi

bronze depicting a donkey and a man at a royal height, I discovered that it was the monument to the Villano with a lot of wonderful dedicated poetry. I offer it in full version because it deserves to be read and meditated: THE VILLAN Father, I want to know who is rude My son if you think of a man who prays with his hat while kneeling invokes God, think of those who cry, blasphemy then asks for forgiveness while it wipes the sweat and caresses the ears of wheat that has the title of "Villano" If you see the one who has the smile while collecting golden clusters or crying and despairs for the delusions of the human, take the work tools with the strong and calloused hand or sits in the middle of the field when fatigue torments his limbs then always finds its strength that my son is the "Villano" If you know a man who loves the scent of the scent that loves the aroma of hay, which loves produce fragrant fruits, which loves tranquility and peace, who loves the pure spring the dew at the birth of the sun, then my son you are in the presence of the son that God is the beloved to that man you can shake hands because he has the the noble title of "Villano" Nerio Persi

when your education x-ray could not see under my skin

74

+4 in comments

so let the love tear us apart

I found the cure for a broken heart

let it tear us apart

this song makes me so happy! listen?

Please let me know if you blog my photo.

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This is a scanned image of a paper print made from a digital negative and processed by the Cyanotype method of 1842.

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cyanotype

Despite that traditional approach to the processing, it contains a very surreal portrait. Here the face of the subject is being obscured by a pinhole camera. Can the camera actually blind us? Perhaps it’s a comment on how we tend to view the world these days, not with our eyes and actual experience, but by taking selfies that we can look back on later. It’s a bit like the people who rush through an art exhibition so they can buy the catalogue and souvenirs to remember it by, but spend little time actually examining the paintings.

But according to Harvard Professor Michael Jackson (no not that one), it is even worse than lack of paying attention to the real world around us. It can lead to a callous disregard. In his book “The Work of Art: Rethinking the Elementary Forms of the Religious Life” (Columbia University Press, 2016), he tells the shocking story of a young girl who fell onto the railway tracks of Union Station in NYC in 2014. As a train was bearing down on her, hundreds of people took out their phones and began recording the tragedy unfolding. Just one man decided to do something and threw himself down onto the tracks to lift the girl to safety at the last moment. One hero and hundreds of cowards. But at least they were recording it for posterity.

Jackson then goes on to tell a truly alarming cautionary tale about the seductions of photographic importance. The idea that photography by showing tragedy can change the world and human behaviour. Oh this is a very subtle lie indeed, especially when it means the photographer in question engages in what some people refer to (excuse the phrase) “compassion porn”. Jackson tells the true story of a Pulitzer Prize winning photographer whose image of a vulture attacking a starving young girl in Africa was snapped up by magazines all over the world. As his fame and fortune from this photograph quickly grew, the photographer in question (I will not name him, but the story is told on pages 145-146 of Jackson’s book) grew increasingly depressed. In less than a year he committed suicide, because in his heart of hearts he knew that rather than do something to rescue the child, he objectified her suffering and death.

That’s the key word, “objectified”. Turning the world and people in it into mere objects we can manipulate for our own “artistic” ends. It’s an example of what the Hungarian philosopher Georg Lukacs called, “commodity fetishism”. Reducing subjective relationships in our world (whether between people or the landscape) to relations of power. In her book “On Photography”, Susan Sontag makes this exact point early on:

“To photograph is to appropriate the thing photographed. It means putting oneself into a certain relation to the world that feels like knowledge – and, therefore, like power.” (p.4).

Language is the bearer of unconscious truth in a way that is no longer true for photographs. At least that is my observation. Once again Sontag highlights the truth of this in the very lingo we use to describe what we do with a camera: We “load”, “aim” and “shoot”.

“...there is something predatory in taking a picture… Eventually, people might learn to act out more of their aggressions with cameras and fewer with guns, with the price being a more image-choked world.” (pp.14,15).

But this comes with some cost (and remember she’s preaching to me too):

“The final need to photograph everything lies in the very logic of consumption itself. To consume means to burn up, to use up – and, therefore, to need to be replenished. As we make images and consume them, we need still more images and still more… The possession of a camera can inspire something akin to lust. And like all creditable forms of lust, it cannot be satisfied… Our oppressive sense of the transience of everything is more acute since cameras give us the means to ‘fix’ the fleeting moment… Cameras are the antidote and the disease, a means of appropriating reality and a means of making it obsolete.” (p.179).

I could go on.

Now as I said, she’s preaching to me, although its quite possible she had in mind the sheer addiction to taking photographs that Garry Winogrand possessed. Or should I say, was possessed by! Garry Winogrand (1928-1984) was almost without doubt the most prolific taker of street photographs of anyone in the pre-digital era. His only rival may have been W. Eugene Smith (1918-1978). Winogrand took literally millions of photographs. At his death it is estimated that there were at least 6000 undeveloped rolls of used film in his home. He was addicted not just to producing images, but merely to the action of taking them.

Okay, to sum up this reflection we need to ask ourselves how the camera is obscuring our sense of reality. Each of us need to consider ways that our photography might be more acutely aware of our world and the subjective relationships we have with the people in it. To engage in a more ethical approach. We each need to identify how best we can do that. The point of this reflection is not to judge, but to merely hold the mirror of reflection up to our faces. It might start with taking a look at what photographs we make (dare I say “shoot” after what Susan Sontag has said), and what our motivations are. And if we find the camera is coming between us and our world, then we may need to make some changes.

With a certain tenacity to grow in hostile places, to endure hardship, and thrive under callous conditions is an act which offers hope to the future of life in time and space.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=7rIYocUi-a8

I wanted to visit this place because of The Morecambe Bay cockling disaster which occurred on the evening of the 5 February 2004 in North West England, United Kingdom when at least 21 cockle pickers were drowned by the incoming tide off the coast off Lancashire/Cumbria in Morecambe Bay.

A gang of Chinese workers were collecting cockles (edible marine bivalves) at low tide on sand flats at Warton Sands, near Hest Bank, to have been paid £5 per 25 kg of cockles[1], when a number of workers were cut off by the incoming tide in the bay at around 9:30 in the evening.

Although the emergency services were alerted by a mobile phone call made by one of the workers, only one of the workers was rescued from the waters. This was partly because the phone call was unclear both to the extent and severity of the danger, and to their location, presumably through a lack of English language ability. A total of 21 bodies, of men and women between the ages of 18 and 45, were recovered from the bay after the incident. Two of the victims were women, the vast majority were young men in their 20s and 30s, with only two being over 40 and only one, a male, under 20. Most of the victims were previously employed as farmers, two were fishermen. All of the bodies of the victims were found, at a variety of trajectories, at nine locations between the cockling area and shore indicating that the majority had attempted to swim but had been overcome partly, or largely, by hypothermia. Four of the victims died after the truck they used to reach the cockling area became overwhelmed by water. A further two cocklers are believed to have been with those drowned, but their bodies were never found.

At the subsequent hearing it was reported that British cocklers returning to shore on the same evening had attempted to warn the Chinese group by tapping their watches and trying to speak with them. However, enmity had existed between the British and immigrant worker groups, with an alleged incident where the immigrant workers' catch was set on fire, and the presumed culprit chased by immigrant workers with rakes. A survivor testified that the leader of the group had made a mistake about the time of the tides. Fourteen other members of the group are reported to have made it safely to the shore, making 15 survivors in total. The workers were all illegal immigrants, mainly from the Fujian province of China, and have been described as being untrained and inexperienced. Concern had been expressed over their situation to the local police some time before, but no action was taken.

The disaster led to the Gangmaster Licensing Act 2004 and the formation of the Gangmasters Licensing Authority.

Cockles harvested from Morecambe BayFrom 2005 to 2006, four men and one woman were tried at Preston Crown Court, accused of manslaughter or helping the cocklers break immigration law. On 24 March 2006, Lin Liangren was convicted of 21 counts of manslaughter. Lin was described in court as being "callous" and motivated by money. Lin claimed that ultimate responsibility lay with the clients, with frequent price cutting by middlemen to blame for the harsh regime. On 28 March 2006, he was sentenced to 14 years imprisonment, with a recommendation that he be deported to China at the end of his sentence.

His girlfriend Zhao Xiaoqing and cousin Lin Muyong were found guilty of the immigration offences. The first two were also found guilty of three charges of perverting the course of justice, by trying to persuade survivors to name some of the dead as the gangmasters. Lin Muyong's girlfriend, Janie Bannister, gave evidence against him in court. Sentencing took place on 28 March 2006. Zhao Xiaoqing was sentenced to two years and nine months, and Lin Muyong was sentenced to four years and nine months.

David Anthony Eden senior and David Anthony Eden junior, from Prenton in Merseyside, who bought cockles from the work gang, were cleared of helping the workers break immigration law.

Alliance, Ohio

"I'm not this callous clown walking around laughing at life all the time ... But I've come out with a smile." ― John Lydon

www.youtube.com/watch?v=kM0mjukDGRw

a bit of extreme processing (it was originally even redder)

GizzA - Vicky Tank Blouse [White] (Shiny Shabby-June)

GizzA - Vicky Trousers [White] (Shiny Shabby-June)

[ kunst ] - kWatch / opaque (TMD June 5)

[ kunst ] - Wire ring (left) (TMD June 5)

-Glam Affair - Summerv3 skin - Jamaica 01

*Dura-Boys&Girls*55(Dark Brown)

UNISEX[MANDALA]STEKING_ears_ver2

IKON Charm Eyes - Deep Hazel

Maitreya Mesh Body - Lara 3.4

::TI:: e-Cigarette _ Bronze (smoke)/hand

REIGN. CHAIN NECKLACE- WHITE

Kalopsia - Outdoor Couch - Cotton (Kustom9)

Kalopsia - Magazine Pile (Summer Edition) (Kustom9)

Kalopsia - Summer Wood - Palm Tree (Kustom9)

Kalopsia - Summer Wood - Sunshine (Kustom9)

[we're CLOSED] old shed

Zigana chime .sun

junk. flower bucket. small.

junk. flower bucket. large.

junk. flower bucket. medium.

Pose: oOo everyday_one ... (at Seraphim's 4th Birthday!)

Taken at State of Confusion

This species can also be found in Borneo, Sumatra & Sulawesi

Here is an assortment of greedy imperialists and beleaguered locals.

• Baron Thaddeus Ipswitch, a callous capitalist

• Uriah Raymond, a savage hunter

• Mr. Horace Henry, a timorous naturalist

• Naweji “Jack” Gama, an misanthropic valet

• Sonkwe “Sammy Boy” Onani, a disenfranchised menial

Which one is your favorite?

Learn more about these characters on my blog.

Website | Instagram | Facebook

A repost for today's holiday.

This is especially dedicated to all the good, the bad and the ugly fathers around the globe.

This was my winning entry to the 72nd Pinoy Kodakero PP Challenge titled "Father and Son" three years ago.

In all honesty, I truly believe that this is a very good image for today's Father's Day.

I miss my dad who left us more than 20 years ago. And my mom followed him for 4 years now. I really love both of them and I still can hear their guiding voices. I used their voices in bringing up my kids for me not to be a perfect father but to raise my kids as good citizens.

I had only one father. His name was LOPE. Well, there's another one up there. But the one down here before was one good father. Only once did he scold me. Yes, ONCE. I was about 6 years old then and my dad was knocking on the door. I was the only one at home, and never bothered to open it. I was playing with my humongous toy firetruck that he gave me. He was so furious and panicky that he was able to open the door by kicking it. He saw me there, right there, callous and unmindful, never stopped playing with my new toy. You probably could have guess what happened next. Or not. He didn't shout. He was mad. I knew from his eyes. But he just grabbed and carried me with his arms and then, he hugged me. He said, don't ever do that again to me. I thought something happened to you. I was so scared at first, but later on, I felt the love. I thought I saw some tears in his eyes. And it was really not scolding. That was just what I felt then. From there on, I was a changed boy and turned me into a father I am right now. Up to this day, I am still trying to emulate him.

My tears flow while I was writing this.

This beautiful picture was provided by Karen for the competition, a fellow flickr friend.

Originally posted here: www.flickr.com/photos/kros/2548294713/

__________________

MY CURRENT STATUS:

First, I really miss you. All of you who supported me in so many ways.

This post, I hope, will mark my revival.

I lost my confidence when I was writing my HDR UNLEASHED ( www.flickr.com/photos/kros/4279193317/ ) book.

I can't finish it cuz I feel like my English is too kindergartenish.

I want to publish it but with at least a decent English.

Probably, a help from friends could make me finish this project.

I will try to post new pictures just to announce that one father on flickr is still alive.

I hope you still recognize me.

FOR SOME REASON, I've been popping in and out on FACEBOOK than on FLICKR.

Check me on FACEBOOK ( www.facebook.com/kkros2 ) and you'll find some new KK images. Will post them here.

__________________

I got to unleash my UNLEASHED HDR book. It's something I want to leave before I join my dad and my mom. At least, I know that I will be remembered through my pictures and my book when I'm gone. I still want to become a well known artist before I say goodbye.

And so, as someone said, I have a dream.

Till next.

.

Abused & Abandoned Jungle Dogs.

Figured the title would grab your attention !

I've made a major blunder and take full responsibility !

Today I've been called before "The Man" for a judgement !

So --

I'm standing straight as an arrow, shoulders back, chest out !

Your Honor, with all do respect and as stated above I do take

full responsibility for the issues at hand. Furthermore there

is an explanation as to why this slight mix-up took place.

And without further delay and of course with your

approval I'd like to start that explanation now.

Approximately 28-29 days ago this young abused an abandoned

puppy was dumped at The Monkey Temple by persons unknown.

Immediately she was taken in and given shelter from the storm.

A couple images of her emaciated body was shared on flickr.

Now Your Honor a number of brave souls took pity on her

and quickly donated funds to help with her health issues.

And just as quickly we went in to action getting her well.

Over time she has come in closer so I could remove the

dozens of bloated tics from her body but she remains

very spooky to close touch which is a result of abuse.

So Your Honor I stand before you to once again say

I take full responsibility for this slight of hand type

of mix-up. Everyone, including myself, were so

excited by her cute-ness she was named -

.. "Little Miss Lisa" ..

Your Honor,

This will be wrapped up soon as I'm now getting

to the end of the final part of this explanation.

Little Lisa was always hunched over with an arched back.

She was very sick and suffering from the agony of mange.

Little Lisa has been kept on medications and fed good food.

So,

Today Little Lisa was full of puppy energy and came in close.

This gave me a chance to go over her body much closer and

what did I find you might be wondering ? Your Honor in all

honesty I found that Little Lisa has a "wing-dang doodle !"

Your Honor you witnessed me raise my right hand

and swear to tell the truth and only the truth !

And I'm here right now to testify that not

only does Little Lisa have a doodle-

noodle but the family jewels too.

Your Honor I will get down on bended knee before

the court and swear I did not know of this before

todays early run out to The Monkey Temple !

But before you pass judgement on me I beg

the court to allow one last favor, please.

Before any mental health issues might occur with

Little Lisa finding out she is not a she, but a he.

I would like to petition the court to re-register

Little Lisa legally as Little Larry. Thank You.

Standing with head held high the gavel came

crashing down as the court is called to order.

A ruff callous voice barks out at the spectators

threatening to clear the court room if there's

any more yapping and hooting from them !

The Judge (talking)

Mr Jon the photo man he says while thumbing

thru a thick file. I have here before me an

interesting file. Some parts are very, what's

the word I'm looking for, impressive, yes

that's the word, but yet you live on a

river in a dangerous poison snake

infested jungle, why is that ?

Sir, (snapping to attention)

It is my sworn duty to never leave anyone

behind and that is exactly what I'm doing.

Well in that case I will now pass sentence.

The Judge --

Mr Jon The photo Man, I sentence you

to doing The Same Same But Different !

Furthermore you are to report back to

the court in 6 months for an update on

all the temple dogs plus Mr Gibbon .

And the court also excepts your

petition changing Little Lisa's

name to Mr Little Larry.

Court is adjourned ............;-)~~~

Thank you for your comments and donations.

Thank You.

Jon&Crew.

Please help with your donations here.

www.gofundme.com/saving-thai-temple-dogs.

Please,

No Political Statements, Awards, Invites,

Large Logos or Copy/Pastes.

© All rights reserved.

.

A Ring of Stone Pillars and

and steal Boards with inscriptions to the memories of the past Durham Miners ,,,which in turn was the North East of England Coal Board

High on a hill it can be seen some distance away ,,

being on the other side of the road to Penshaw Monument

considering this Outstanding Wildlife Park is on the same site that was once not to long ago as heaps of coal waste stone and a Colliery which was closed along with hundreds more like it

by a callous greedy Tory Government

the Local Planners did an Amazing Job

The ruins of Downhill Country House, built in the 1770's for Frederick Augustus Hervey, who was both Bishop of Derry and Fourth Earl of Bristol, Co. Antrim. Sadly, it was destroyed by a fire in 1851, and now bears some stupid callous graffiti. View On Black

The palace is surrounded by magnificent grounds and borders onto a cliff that juts over the Atlantic Ocean. Downhill is located along the Antrim Coast in Northern Ireland, close to the town of Castlerock.

Watching modern cars streak past the Berlin cathedral (est. in 1451) made me feel uncomfortably aware of the impermanence of most modern people. The Cathedral itself was striking, but thinking of the men that build the cathedral 561 years ago enhanced the beauty of the experience.

Accessibility Description: A lone sprig of pine needles is caught in the coiled wiring of a backhoe, clinging stubbornly against the cold geometry of steel and hydraulics. Its green life is already fading, yet here it hangs, trapped as an afterthought, a callous reminder of what human progress pushes aside. The bright paint of industry contrasts harshly with the fragile remnant of a forest, underscoring how easily nature is dismissed, bent, and broken in the name of construction. The small branch is not a symbol of resilience here, but of disregard, a quiet casualty, left behind as if it never mattered.

Every season has its own glory (James Watkins)

Every season has its own glory,

Every purpose has its own time,

Every moment has its own story,

Every story has its own line.

I have walked deep into cities,

Shining brightly never to fail,

Listened to heart cries,

Lost in the morning,

Standing on corners

Stagnant and stale.

Where is the hope

That brought forth the laughter?

Where is the song?

The music unveiled?

Why are the choices so

Wasted and bitter?

Gathered in hatred,

Broken and pale.

There are the voices lost in confusion,

Crushed in the thriving, deepening swale-

Calloused and cold the circling convenience,

Crippled commotion emotions prevail

Severed connections, squandered projections-

Revered reflections, stammering tongues-

Coined by controlling contriving convections,

In different directions now written in stone.

I have seen new stars on the mountains,

Fed on the movement of heaven and earth-

Filled up by frameworks

In perfect perspective,

Fueled by the turning of terrible truth.

Come now and sing of mists in the forest,

Sensual sonnets of songs in the dirt-

Come and behold the delicate balance

Of seasons and reasons and rhythms

And birth.

Beacons of quiet in last true performance,

Heralded nature in singular cause-

Ancient and pure dreams

Shattered and twisted

Arrayed in transitional

Smoldering awe.

Now is the time to look to the heavens,

Now is the moment to take up the cause,

Now is the voice of blazing amazement,

Borne on the winds of the gathering storm.

Listen to stream, listen to forest,

Listen to flower, and staggering fawn-

Listen to voices rolling like thunder,

Drink of the waters

And dance with the dawn.

Wrapped in the garments of natural beauty,

Facing the force of burgeoning call-

Strong in the seasons of life and creation,

Firm on foundations that will never fall.

James Watkins 09-01-08

"May the gods pity the man who in his callousness can remain sane to the hideous end."

(H.P. Lovecraft)

Cacophony: Rudimentary Peni - Twitch/Imps of the Perverse

A photo taken on a walk in the back end of July showing a flower tribute that had been left in remembrance of a young life taken too soon but then discarded callously into the mud of a nearby stream. It's the world we've created I guess.

17.) Reverie: absentminded dreaming while awake.

"She was detained by the frail, long hands of reverie; slipping in, slipping out, and never knowing which butterflies were real and which were created by Magic's calloused fingers."

I saw this word drifting around tumblr the other day and it struck me.

So these were taken with my new wide-angle/macro lens attachment on New Year's Eve. It was 55 degrees outside which never happens in winter; much less the last day of December.

About my print giveaway: I have to put it on hold for a little while. (Maybe 2 weeks) Because there are way too many stresses in my life at the moment.

I hope everyone's 2011 is going well so far :)

16.) Facet: aspect: a distinct feature or element in a problem: a smooth surface.

She had a thousand facets to pride herself in, yet she chose to dwell on the one that shamed her. For if she turned a little to the left, if the light fell the right way, and if you dared to look her in the eyes you could see exactly what she never wanted to reveal, all of her secrets, desires, and tales of cunning deceit.

I'm starting to take pictures regularly again and it still feels good even when they don't come out the way I'd imagined.

Tumblr.

Formspring

Facebook

Every Season Has Its Own Glory (JHWatkins) not hdr

Every season has its own glory,

Every purpose has its own time,

Every moment has its own story,

Every story has its own line.

I have walked deep into cities,

Shining brightly never to fail,

Listened to heart cries,

Lost in the morning,

Standing on corners

Stagnant and stale.

Where is the hope

That brought forth the laughter?

Where is the song?

The music unveiled?

Why are the choices so

Wasted and bitter?

Gathered in hatred,

Broken and pale.

I have seen (new) stars on the mountains,

Fed on the movement of heaven and earth-

Fired by the framework

Of perfect perspective,

Fueled by the turning of terrible truth.

Come now and sing of mists in the forest,

Sensual sonnets of songs in the dirt-

Come and behold the delicate balance

Of seasons and reasons and rhythms

And birth.

There are the voices lost in confusion,

Crushed in the thriving, deepening swale-

Calloused and cold the circling convenience,

Crippled emotion commotion prevails.

Beacons in quiet of last true performance,

Heralded nature in singular cause-

Perfect and pure

Though wasted and slandered.

Washed by confession

In smoldering awe.

Severed connections, squandered projections-

Revered reflections by stammering tongues-

Coined by controlling contriving convections,

In different directions now written in stone.

Now is the time to look to the heavens,

Now is the moment to take up the cause,

Now is the voice of blazing amazement,

Borne on the winds of the gathering storm.

Listen to stream, listen to forest,

Listen to flower, and staggering fawn-

Listen to voices rolling like thunder,

Come drink of the waters

And dance with the dawn.

Wrapped in the garments of natural beauty,

Facing the force of the burgeoning call-

Strong in the seasons of life and creation,

Firm on foundations that never will fall.

James Watkins 09-01-08

A well used ONR ballast hopper wearing the classic chevrons weathered to perfection.

non hdr

NIAGRA FALLS AT NIGHT-Constantly changing lights..Canadian falls through light mist top right

Standing on the Precipice (James watkins)

Standing on the precipice-

balanced at junctions,

space and time-

there are no excuses here

no explanations or rhymes.

Locked in lavish rhythm

far beyond the brink-

hid from help or rescue-

on jagged edge distinct.

Weighty voices-

tomorrows bearing-

form forces by the day...

Wound tight

in folds of failure-

by faltering historic foray.

Naked standing truth-

whirl winded and filleted-

open now -

body bleeding-

clean by choice-

ruthless rights parlayed.

Ring round the

restless righteous-

tormented tongues

twisted and advanced.

Weapons trained-

fitting filled-

hopelessness entranced.

New toys

for large little boys-

clicking clocks

in finest fashion.

Positioned perspective-

poisoned possessive power-

from places unimagined.

Whining women-

worn-out white wheezers-

talking days on end-

endless hours

of wasted words-

useless air-

precious spent.

Children torn

apart at seams-

families drugged

and drenched...

Callous toned

nightmares

running wild-

seeds scattered

in the wind.

Lost by generation's

darkened doubt-

aflame

the fearless world-

tossed aside by

hellish schemes-

now rampant-

flags unfurled.

Gone the green

and yearning years-

foundations

fairly laid-

of priceless pearl

in wisdom grown,

crown jewelry

on parade.

But new

the turning earth begins-

choice

once again delayed.

Come cold and calm

courageous men-

run boldly

to your fate.

And stand in

earnest errand bare,

an era

at the end-

to bind yourselves

betrothed and braced-

now finish

without fear. (James watkins 2004)

Standing on the Precipice (JHWatkins)

Standing on the precipice-

balanced at junctions,

space and time-

there are no excuses here

no explanations or rhymes.

Locked in lavish rhythm

far beyond the brink-

hid from help or rescue-

on jagged edge distinct.

Weighty voices-

tomorrows bearing-

form forces by the day...

Wound tight

in folds of failure-

by faltering historic foray.

Naked standing truth-

whirl winded and filleted-

open now -

body bleeding-

clean by choice-

ruthless rights parlayed.

Ring round the

restless righteous-

tormented tongues

twisted and advanced.

Weapons trained-

fitting filled-

hopelessness entranced.

New toys

for large little boys-

clicking clocks

in finest fashion.

Positioned perspective-

poisoned possessive power-

from places unimagined.

Whining women-

worn-out white wheezers-

talking days on end-

endless hours

of wasted words-

useless air-

precious spent.

Children torn

apart at seams-

families drugged

and drenched...

Callous toned

nightmares

running wild-

seeds scattered

in the wind.

Lost a generation dark,

aflame the fearless world-

tossed aside by

hellish schemes-

now rampant-

flags unfurled.

Gone-by green

and yearning years-

foundations

fairly laid-

Priceless pearls

in wisdom grown,

crown jewelry

on parade.

But new

the turning earth begins-

choice

once again delayed.

Come cold and calm

courageous men-

run boldly

to your fate.

And stand in earnest errand bare,

an era at the end-

Bind up yourselves

betrothed and braced-

to finish

without fear.

(James Watkins 2004)

Days like today make it hard to silence my yearning for you

Days when I lay still while my brain attempts to recreate images of you

sketching like a troubled artist, desperately trying to illustrate your essence

Anything to make it not hurt like this.

This feeling. This distance.

Anything to make my heart stop aching

Days like today make it hard not to cry out for you…

when the void in my chest refuses to go unnoticed

and the emptiness in my soul refuses to be still

when my foolish heart won’t pretend as if it doesn’t hurt so badly

I miss you.

Every day I spend waiting for you to reach for me

every moment I spend pouring music into my ears in hopes of masking the absence of your voice —

Those moments lay stretched across my bed and I can’t sleep

not until the film reel starts spinning and we begin to dance our sweet memories

touching and kissing and loving, basking in everything that feels right

Those dreams are the sweetest

And the endings are always bitter

when morning peeks into my eyelids and your presence fades

thrusting me back into a reality where you and I no longer share a heart

where elephants fill every room we occupy across phone lines

when love rarely falls from the tip of your tongue and

the world we crafted with our hearts and our hands is crumbling

and I’m too naive to see. and you’re too calloused to care

But I love you

And in the absence of your desire for me

my silly heart clings to the possibility

my mind scolds me for praising the memories

and my life keeps pushing me forward

though my eyes keep looking back at "us"

Days like today make it hard to pretend "we" still exists

but my brain is still sketching frantically,

determined to paint your essence onto the backs of my eyelids

so that no matter how far away you drift,

I can always close my eyes and remember

how beautiful it felt when you were in love.

- Jessica Rycheal

Day 6 I wrote this poem two days ago. Today, the feelings were too strong to mask or ignore. So as much as I didn't want the Day 6 portrait to reflect this vulnerable state, there was no way I could hide it from the camera so I figured I may as well give in and let it go.

Early Years

For as long as Roger could remember he’d had a sword in his hand, training from near birth to be a capable swordsman and live up to their family heritage and words, fame through valor. Any time the young man wasn’t training he was down at Duskendale’s harbor learning how to sail, as the heir apparent to the Darklyn house his education wasn’t neglected but it was clear he favored combat and tactics to words and diplomacy. When he was old enough he would join his Uncle Steffon as his squire learning the workings of the King’s Guard and training among some of the best in the Kingdom. Being a squire for his uncle put him in close proximity to Visery’s I Targaryen as well as other members of the royal family if only in passing. He traveled much of the crownlands during this time, spending a significant amount of his teenage years in Dragonstone or King’s Landing. Roger would spend a lot of his free time outdoors in both locations being especially fond of gardens. He was charming and charismatic, training out of adoration for his Uncle more than a need to actually fight. He would often joke about joining the Kingsguard himself and letting his brother take his place as Lord of Duskendale but his father would never allow such a thing to happen.

Dance of Dragons

When the Dance of Dragons began Roger would flee King’s Landing with his Uncle, two stewards, four guardsman, and Viserys’ Crown bringing them to Dragonstone to join Rhaenyra and be present for her coronation. It was shortly after that he would be knighted by Lord Commander Steffon Darklyn. Not long after his father Gunthor was beheaded during the sacking of Duskendale and his Uncle would die at the maw of Seasmoke. These tragedy’s would shape the young Lord’s personality going forward. The young bright eyed boy who wanted nothing more than to join his uncle at the side of the Queen was gone. He became cold, his temper would run as hot as the fire that killed his idol. He grew callous and his tongue as sharp as his blade when it came to tearing down those he found to be inferior to him. He drowned himself in his training, mastering the blade as best he could. He pushed his body to the limit building his strength and brawn until he became as tall and unyielding as Dun Fort atop its hill. He joined the Black armies in battle fighting across the crownlands and learning at the side of older commanders how wars were waged. The war was short but harsh leaving him weathered and aged beyond his young years. His personality quickly twisted into one of arrogant ambition and fierce determination, the handsome young man considered himself beyond reproach and he hungered to make a name for himself. The Darklyn’s had fallen far in the Dance and he alone could lead them back to the fame and valor of their birthright.

Winter Begins

Roger had grown into a stoic young man, tall and wide as a galleon, the imposing figure had a face that was nearly always twisted into a scowl or smiling with an air of superiority. His dark raven hair swept over his head and his eyes sitting dark in their hollow sockets. Even before the winter Roger felt cold, always cold and uncomfortable, even though his skin was hot to the touch he would wear furs over his shoulders and keep his hair long to cover his ears. Following the Dance, Roger would return home to Dun Fort and consolidate what remained of his banners and people. The harsh cold years would do little to cool his disposition and the arrogant young lord would fight through the winter years leading his people to rebuild his burned harbor, his fleet, and his forces. As far as he was concerned Aenar was a consolation prize, it was his Mother that Roger, Steffan, and Gunthor had sword fealty to. He would honor those oaths for now but his bitterness at the green houses was far from faded and that growing resentment drove him to amass and consolidate his forces as fast as possible for what he hoped would be a reckoning of punishments levied onto the traitorous houses that had stood against Rhaenyra’s proper claim to the throne. Now the year was 135 and the King was throwing the Maiden’s day ball and one that Roger was keen to attend, he needed a wife and heirs as soon as possible and he was determined to levy for a position in the King’s new Court.

Moon Child

“Come to me, child of the moon…”

the Night Wind cried and sighed

and would not be denied.

Moon Child stood very still, unyielding,

alone on a stalwart mesa

where sand scoured the soul.

“I cannot, for I do not live…”

called Moon Child to the restless wind

that blew her skirt.

“If you speak, you live, my child…”

Wind whirled round Moon Child in dusty desperation.

“I breath, but do not live…”

said the pale fragment of flesh,

standing still as death.

Wind played its tune

upon her cheek, crescendos vivid,

but it stirred nothing

in the heart of Maiden Moon Child.

All the long day Wind argued,

cajoled and teased, taunted

and whispered secrets long unheard.

But Moon Child would not be moved.

Her silence echoed from the mesa

and reverberated off canyon walls.

At last Moon Child spoke her story:

“I loved and loved well,

with all the being within me, I loved.

He took my love and ground it into the soil,

spat on it and destroyed

its lovely essence with his callous hate.”

“Forever more shall I stand here,

guardian of the hearts of women

who give of themselves to unworthy

monsters whose fists flail and whose tongues

cut the throats of she

who faithfully stands by in innocent waiting.”

And thus the Maiden stands yet, upon the Mesa of the Moon,

ever alert to hearts that cry with sour rejection and are bereft of hope.

"Wolfheart"

Drenched her rough soles from wearing her wooden dr. scholl's clogs around the house the whole day.

She said I could choose between mouth, face and soles - do you think I did the right choice? What would you choose? ;-p

you took notice of my ill-fated heart

& reveled in the fact that you were the reason it bled

the discussion, always one sided

& like a flood, you drown me from all sides with your face, your cruel words, & most of all, your silence when I need to hear from you the most.

like a bruise I can't stop touching

you are relentless with your malicious intentions

& yet

I can only blame myself.

for I let you stamp your disapproval on me a thousand times over

never once walking away

but I am not to be subdued any longer

my heart is sick no more

& like a volcano erupting, I have found my fire.

flames bursting inside of me like the waves all those times I was drowning in you

but I can swim now

I can float

& I don't see your face anymore, or hear your voice

& it is magnificent that your callous instrument is no longer being played.

Words & photo by Shelly Kay.

My fingers are still calloused from making that crown

Dhaka, Bangladesh, 2011

Having a callous voice and grimy nature, they are always been neglected.

Excluding this, just like other birds, they have a song.

A song of their own and a song not so melodious in human ear.

But still, it’s their song.

A song so simple and ordinary.

no hdr here...The spray is impressive and one of the most beautiful aspects of the falls at night....you can see the Canadian falls in the mist at the top with the reddish color on it from the lights. Niagra had as much water flow this time as I have ever seen...just immense.

Standing on the Precipice (JHWatkins)

Standing on the precipice-

balanced at junctions,

space and time-

there are no excuses here

no explanations or rhymes.

Locked in lavish rhythm

far beyond the brink-

hid from help or rescue-

on jagged edge distinct.

Weighty voices-

tomorrows bearing-

form forces by the day...

Wound tight

in folds of failure-

by faltering historic foray.

Naked standing truth-

whirl winded and filleted-

open now -

body bleeding-

clean by choice-

ruthless rights parlayed.

Ring round the

restless righteous-

tormented tongues

twisted and advanced.

Weapons trained-

fitting filled-

hopelessness entranced.

New toys

for large little boys-

clicking clocks

in finest fashion.

Positioned perspective-

poisoned possessive power-

from places unimagined.

Whining women-

worn-out white wheezers-

talking days on end-

endless hours

of wasted words-

useless air-

precious spent.

Children torn

apart at seams-

families drugged

and drenched...

Callous toned

nightmares

running wild-

seeds scattered

in the wind.

Lost by generation's

darkened doubt-

aflame

the fearless world-

tossed aside by

hellish schemes-

now rampant-

flags unfurled.

Gone the green

and yearning years-

foundations

fairly laid-

of priceless pearl

in wisdom grown,

crown jewelry

on parade.

But new

the turning earth begins-

choice

once again delayed.

Come cold and calm

courageous men-

run boldly

to your fate.

And stand in

earnest errand bare,

an era

at the end-

now bind yourselves

betrothed and braced-

to finish

without fear. (James watkins 2004)

Love the trees the flowers and fruits

Love all beings on the Earth as ourselves

What I inhale is your exhale

What is part of world, is part of us

The first breath of a new born life

Is the last breath of another life

With none to hate, not even foes

Who do ill to embitter our woes

But do them good in return

So as to make them ponder

Over their callousness and render

Thus our help to chasten their minds

- Anuj Nair

---------------------------------------------------

Dedicated to my dear friend Steve

www.flickr.com/photos/komotini49/

Flower : Cape Honeysuckle ( Tecomaria capensis )

------------------------------------------------------

© 2009 Anuj Nair. All rights reserved.

-------------------------------------------------------

www.anujnair.net

________________________________________________

© 2009 Anuj Nair. All rights reserved.

All images and poems are the property of Anuj Nair.

Using these images and poems without permission is in violation of international copyright laws (633/41 DPR19/78-Disg 154/97-L.248/2000). All materials may not be copied, reproduced, distributed, republished, downloaded, displayed, posted or transmitted in any forms or by any means,including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording without written permission of Anuj Nair. Every violation will be pursued penally.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=4dlOlx1Mwu0&feature=related

Every season has its own glory (James Watkins)

Every season has its own glory,

Every purpose has its own time,

Every moment has its own story,

Every story has its own line.

I have walked deep into cities,

Shining brightly never to fail,

Listened to heart cries,

Lost in the morning,

Standing on corners

Stagnant and stale.

Where is the hope

That brought forth the laughter?

Where is the song?

The music unveiled?

Why are the choices so

Wasted and bitter?

Gathered in hatred,

Broken and pale.

There are the voices lost in confusion,

Crushed in the thriving, deepening swale-

Calloused and cold the circling convenience,

Crippled commotion emotions prevail

Severed connections, squandered projections-

Revered reflections, stammering tongues-

Coined by controlling contriving convections,

In different directions now written in stone.

I have seen new stars on the mountains,

Fed on the movement of heaven and earth-

Filled up by frameworks

In perfect perspective,

Fueled by the turning of terrible truth.

Come now and sing of mists in the forest,

Sensual sonnets of songs in the dirt-

Come and behold the delicate balance

Of seasons and reasons and rhythms

And birth.

Beacons of quiet in last true performance,

Heralded nature in singular cause-

Ancient and pure dreams

Shattered and twisted

Arrayed in transitional

Smoldering awe.

Now is the time to look to the heavens,

Now is the moment to take up the cause,

Now is the voice of blazing amazement,

Borne on the winds of the gathering storm.

Listen to stream, listen to forest,

Listen to flower, and staggering fawn-

Listen to voices rolling like thunder,

Drink of the waters

And dance with the dawn.

Wrapped in the garments of natural beauty,

Facing the force of burgeoning call-

Strong in the seasons of life and creation,

Firm on foundations that will never fall.

James Watkins 09-01-08

Prince on the Oldies station: Kiss

www.youtube.com/watch?v=H9tEvfIsDyo

You don't have to be beautiful to turn me on

Ethan: (working on his motorcycle in his garage, pretends he doesn't realize Emmilynn is sneaking up behind him, so he doesn't freak out when she suddenly covers his eyes with her hands) What the --

Emmi: Surprise! Guess who!

Ethan: I'd know those calloused hands anywhere -- Boyd.

Emmi: My hands aren't calloused. I moisturize.

Ethan: Oh, I'm so sorry. Forgive me, Stefan.

Emmi: (giggles and uncovers his eyes) Okay, I've met Boyd, but now I'm dying to meet Stefan.

Prince on the Oldies station: You don't have to be rich to be my girl - You don't have to be cool to rule my world

Ethan: Oh, Em' it's YOU. What a surprise. I didn't expect to see you this early.

Emmi: (giving him a little push) Knock it off. I don't know how you knew I was sneaking in here, but you knew.

Ethan: Everyone else I know either smells like booze or gasoline and oil. Sometimes a combination. You smell like a spring garden, right after a light rain.

Emmi: (smiling) Just for that, I forgive you for the calloused hands remark. (she bends and gives him a light kiss on the lips)

Prince on the Oldies station: Ain't no particular sign I'm more compatible with - I just want your extra time and your kiss

Ethan: Come to think of it, Stefan always smells nice too.

Emmi: Speaking of odors, will you have time to wash off a little of the man-musk after you finish doing whatever it is you're doing to your bike, and still have time to take me dinner?

Ethan: Man-musk?

Emmi: You smell like you went ten rounds with a gorilla -- and the gorilla was a garage mechanic.

Ethan: (laughs) Actually, I just finished so, yes, I will have time to de-gorilla. (stands)

Emmi: Where are you taking me, anyway? You were so mysterious about it, on the phone.

Prince on the Oldies station: Yes, oh, I think I wanna dance, uh - Gotta, gotta, oh

Ethan: Don't you know what day it is?

Emmi: Monday?

Ethan: Come on, you green up in Village Green. You MUST know what day it is.

Emmi: (her brow wrinkles) I think I'm going to need a hint.

Ethan: It's May...

Emmi: Uh huh.

Ethan: It's the first sunny day...

Emmi: Spring clean-- Oh, NO! (interrupts herself, eyes going wide)

Ethan: (grinning) It's --

Ethan/Emmi: Training Day!

Emmi: Ethan Dane, don't tell me you're one of those terrible people who converge on the summer businesses to make life hell for the new trainees.

Prince on the Oldies station: You just leave it all up to me, my love will be your food

Ethan: (grinning) Not hell, maybe purgatory.

Emmi: I have NEVER participated in that shady little tradition.

Ethan: Shady? Come on, Emmi, it's our civic duty to ensure the summer businesses have employees who can handle the tourists.

Emmi: By making them miserable?

Ethan: By giving them life experience.

Emmi: None of you just go in to have a meal, or rent a board, or whatever. You intentionally create drama and give them a hard time.

Ethan: No one does anything that hasn't been documented as actually having been done by a tourist.

Emmi: (dubious) I've heard some of those stories are exaggerated.

Ethan: Embellished, maybe. A little. Come on, Emmi, it's tradition. The trainees would be crushed if we didn't turn out. This is community support, here.

Emmi: Well -- I'll go.

Prince on the Oldies station: You don't have to be rich to be my girl - You don't have to be cool to rule my world

Ethan: Yes!

Emmi: But only to show them what a perfectly normal person acts like.

Ethan: If you say so. (kisses her cheek) Back in a minute. (exits the garage)

Emmi: Take two and wash behind your ears! (calls after him, shaking her head) Training Day.

Prince on the Oldies station: Ain't no particular sign I'm compatible with! - I just want your extra time and your kiss

(Thank you to Seth for playing Ethan Dane.)

Wish you all a happy and healthy 2021. May all your dreams come true and your girlfriends or wives fulfill your foot fetish joy and let you admire, sniff, lick and do whatever you want with their feet as long as it doesn't hurt anybody.

Ahhh... and don't forget to share a lot of pictures to our community ;-)

For ::The Thematorium:::: Ant's eye view

"The indifference, callousness, and contempt that so many people exhibit toward animals is evil first because it results in great suffering towards animals, and second because it results in an incalculably great impoverishment of human spirit ".

—Ashley Montagu